


Grave Rivalry

by deducingontheroof



Series: The Skull and the Flame [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassination, M/M, Murder, Rivalry, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deducingontheroof/pseuds/deducingontheroof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock AU- Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective by day, and a world-class assassin called Black Skull by night. One day, he gets a new flatmate. What he doesn't know is John Watson is really Burning Flame, his number one rival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flame in Hiding

Sherlock Holmes glanced around the corner. The man in the shop hadn't noticed him. That was expected. No one could see him at night if he didn't wish to be seen. 

He called himself Black Skull. Or, that's how he was known to crime rings around the globe. He was a top assassin, disguised as a consulting detective. And his next target was inside that shop. 

He waited until he heard the telltale sound of the man ascending the stairs. He walked with a slight limp, so Sherlock could hear every step he took. 

Once the man was up the stairs, Sherlock moved. He pulled a small lock picking kit from his coat pocket and, scanning the delicate instruments, selected a tool that would fit this lock. He slipped the tool into the lock- gently, gently- and, maneuvering it so the tumblers caught, turned the lock and quietly opened the door. This job was quick and sweet, no strings attached. 

He slipped into the shop, closing the door behind him. Moving quickly and silently, he crossed the shop floor to the stairs. Gently, with his toe, he checked each step before standing on it, to avoid creaking. 

He came up into the upstairs corridor. The man slept in the room at the far end. The door was left partially open, to keep it moderately cool in the room. 

Swiftly, Sherlock stalked into the room, slipping through the slim opening in the door, not making a sound. He approached his victim and drew a small knife from inside his sleeve. He quickly and quietly drew the knife across the man's throat. His work here was finished. 

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He flattened it out against the wall, revealing a sketch of a black skull, then drove the knife into the wall, holding the paper there. It was his signature, his tag. 

He opened the window and lifted himself up onto the roof. He ran along the edge, leaping gracefully from building to building until the darkness swallowed him up. 

***

John Watson looked again at the address scribbled down on the scrap of newspaper. Surely, this couldn't be the place. Harry wouldn't send him here. This wasn't a place for an assassin to hide out. 

No, this was the place, alright. The place where John Watson, aka Burning Flame, would be living temporarily. Not only that, but he had a detective for a flatmate!

Harry sent him away 'to wait out the legal storm threatening him.' Sure. Hide right under the nose of a detective. It was like she wanted him to get arrested. He sighed resignedly, and knocked on the door to 221B Baker Street. 

A lady about the age of his mum came to the door. Not that he would know, he hadn't spoken to his mother in… what? Ten, fifteen years? Since he started his current line of work. 

"You must be John! I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady," she greeted. 

"Yes, hello. Pleasure to meet you," he responded. She stepped back, gesturing for him to enter. He stepped into the flat, shutting the door behind him. He followed Mrs. Hudson upstairs into the sitting room. 

"Sorry about the mess, Sherlock never cleans up after himself," she apologized for the man John could only assume to be his flatmate.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it. Harry never cleans up her messes, either. I'm quite used to it," he smiled reassuringly. 

"Your bedroom's just upstairs. I'll be downstairs if you need me." she left the flat, her kitten heels clicking on the stairs. 

John went up the stairs and into his room, looking around. This would work for now. It wasn't as bad as he had originally thought. He heard the front door slam, and footsteps on the stairs. He left the room and went down into the sitting room to greet his new flatmate. 

"Sherlock, was it? I'm John Watson, your new flatmate." He held out his hand to shake. 

***

Sherlock was surprised. His new flatmate wasn't supposed to arrive until the 15th of July, but here he was, a month early. 

"I thought you weren't coming until July," Sherlock said cooly, ignoring the outstretched hand. John let his hand drop. 

"No, I said the 15th of June," his new flatmate corrected. 

"Oh. Slight misunderstanding, then. Sherlock Holmes," he introduced in a tone that suggested that he didn't care.

"I just thought I'd introduce myself. I'll leave you to… whatever you do," John looked around the room, no doubt puzzled by the assortment of items and specimens. 

"Consulting detective. Mind if I borrow your phone? The battery's dead on mine," Sherlock requested. John dug his phone out of his pocket and passed it over. Sherlock slid open the keyboard and started typing a message, "So, tell me, how is your brother's new girlfriend?"

"What?" John was confused. 

"Your brother, Harry. He just got a new girlfriend, did he not?" Sherlock clarified. 

"Yes, Harry just started seeing Clara. How did you know?" John wondered. 

"Your mobile. It's much more expensive than you can afford, seeing as you're looking for a flat share, so it's a gift. It's covered in scratches. It clearly was in the same pocket as keys and coins. Your one luxury item, you would take better care of it. So it's had a previous owner. Most likely from a family member. Not a parent, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but unlikely, seeing as you're having difficulties finding a place to stay. So a brother. There's an engraving on the back: 'Harry, Love you forever, Jemma. XXX' Clearly a romantic attachment. The engraving is newer than the phone, you can tell by looking at the shine of the edges of the letters in comparison to the rest of the phone. So, Jemma had the engraving added to the phone, undoubtedly for a gift. There are marks on the engraving, as if someone had tried to scratch it out. Clearly, Harry is no longer seeing Jemma. Undoubtedly from one too many rows about his drinking. Obviously a heavy drinker. There are scuff marks around the power coupling for when he went to plug it in to charge every night, with his hands shaking. You never see a sober man's phone with those marks, never see a drunk's without them. The new girlfriend was easy. When you lent me your phone, there was a text open from Harry, saying 'I'll be out late, she wants to see a show.' Am I wrong?"

***

John stared at Sherlock in awe. 

"That was amazing. Absolutely fantastic," he admired. 

"Really? Most people tell me to piss off," Sherlock responded, surprised. 

"You were off on one thing, though," John pointed out. 

"Oh?"

"Harry's short for Harriet,"

"Harry's your sister," Sherlock realized. He passed my phone back. Just then, they heard sirens outside. A man ran up the stairs and into the room. John vaguely recognized him as a DI from Scotland Yard, Lestrade. 

"Where?" Sherlock asked Lestrade. 

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade answered. 

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock questioned. 

"Anderson," Lestrade replied. 

"Anderson won't work with me. I need an assistant," Sherlock said frustratedly. 

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked. 

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind," Sherlock agreed. 

Lestrade nodded, then went back down the stairs an left the flat. The sirens faded as the police car drove away. Sherlock turned to John. 

"What exactly is it that you do, Mr. Watson?" Sherlock questioned. 

"Dr. Watson, actually. I'm a doctor, trained for the army, but I dropped out before I left for Afghanistan" John corrected. 

"Want to see some danger?" Sherlock asked, a twinkle in his eye. 

"Oh, god, yes," he agreed, following his flatmate outside, where they hailed a cab. 

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Sherlock requested, climbing in. John followed him. Working for the police. Nice cover, actually. This would do until he could return to his real life. 


	2. Freakishly Brilliant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime scene, Lauriston Gardens. 
> 
>  
> 
> "No, it's… good." Their eyes met for a moment before he lowered his gaze. 
> 
> John never had been the type to go for other blokes, but that look… it made him shiver. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished! Sorry for the really long wait! This fic is harder to write than I expected. Hope you enjoy!

***

As Sherlock stepped out of the taxi, he glanced around. The place was swarming with police, most of them highly incompetent. 

He approached the sectioned-off house, and John followed him. 

"Hello, freak!" called Sergeant Donovan. 

"Hello, Sally. Pleasant night?" Sherlock asked innocently. 

"What are you implying?" 

"Oh, nothing. But you didn't make it home last night."

Sally scowled and lifted the tape to let him in. She lowered it as John tried to enter. 

"Who are you?" she demanded. 

"I'm a friend of his," John replied, nodding his head towards Sherlock. 

"Friend? He doesn't have friends," Sally scoffed. 

"Well, he's got me."

She shook her head and lifted the tape, letting him through. They approached the house. An officer stood in the doorway. 

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," Sherlock greeted. 

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear?" he snapped. 

"Quite. Is your wife away for long?"

"Someone told you. No way you 'deduced' that."

"Oh, no one told me," commented Sherlock, glancing at Sally. 

Anderson turned red, "Look, I don't know what you're implying-"

"Oh, I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came around for a nice chat, then happened to stay over." Sherlock replied, walking past the humiliated police officer into the building. He turned around, "And I'm assuming she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees!"

He ignored Anderson's embarrassed spluttering and swiftly ascended to the second level, followed by John. They were met there by Lestrade. 

"Who's this?" the DI asked of John. 

"He's with me," Sherlock said firmly. Lestrade shrugged resignedly and led the two of them up to the scene of the crime. 

 

***

John stared down at the body, a woman in pink. Probably mid-thirties. 

"Who is she?" he questioned. 

"Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards," replied the DI. Sherlock knelt down beside her, gesturing for John to do the same. He complied, kneeling down. 

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked. 

John leaned down, checking the woman's airways. He sat back on his heels. 

"Asphyxiation. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. I can't smell any alcohol on her. Could be a seizure, or drugs, but poison is probable," John rattled off. 

"Poison. My thoughts exactly," Sherlock confirmed. 

"Sherlock, I said two minutes. I need anything you've got," Lestrade demanded. 

"She worked as some sort of professional judging by her clothes, something in the media, judging by the frankly alarming share of pink…" Sherlock began, continuing his deductions for a few minutes before stopping. 

"Amazing," John admired, unconsiously speaking aloud. 

"You know you do that out loud?" Sherlock pointed out. 

He shifted uncomfortably, "Sorry. I'll stop."

"No, it's… good." Their eyes met for a moment before he lowered his gaze. 

John never had been the type to go for other blokes, but that look… it made him shiver. 

Oh good Lord, I'm falling for my cover story, he thought. 

He was broken from his slight trance by DI Lestrade commenting, "There was no case."

"What?" demanded Sherlock. 

"There wasn't a suitcase," affirmed Lestrade. 

Sherlock ran out into the stairwell, shouting about anyone seeing a suitcase. 

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade yelled after him. Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs. 

"Oh, serial killer's always tricky, have to wait for them to make a mistake," pondered Sherlock. 

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade shouted. 

"Oh, we're done waiting. Houston, we have a mistake!" called Sherlock, almost out the door. 

"What mistake!" asked Lestrade. 

"Pink!" shouted Sherlock before dashing out the door. 

***

Sherlock ran out of the door to the building, nearly crashing into Anderson. 

"Watch where you're going!" the man complained irritably. 

"Anderson, keep your incompetence to yourself," he snapped over his shoulder. He kept running, ducking under the police tape marking the edge of the crime scene. 

Now, where to start. 

He chose an alley at random and headed over. He spotted a Dumpster, and started sifting through. After a few minutes, he accepted that the Dumpster was clean. 

He kept looking, sorting through Dumpsters and rubbish piles, stuff like that. He even climbed up onto a roof. 

It took a while, almost an hour, before he finally found the right skip. He pulled out the pink suitcase and checked the tag. Yes, it was Jennifer Wilson's case. 

Sherlock walked back to the main road, hailing a cab. 

"221B Baker Street," he told the cabbie, slumping against the window. It didn't take long before they had arrived. He paid the cabbie and went into the flat. 

Once inside, he went upstairs to the sitting room, depositing the case next to an armchair. He dug through a desk drawer and located his nicotine patches. He rolled up his sleeve and slapped a few patches on. 

He flopped down on the couch, pulling out his phone and toying with it for a moment. 

After a few moments consideration, he texted Dr. Watson. 

***

John walked out the door into the cool London night, scanning the area for Sherlock. 

"He's gone," called the curly-haired officer from earlier, Sally. 

"Sherlock Holmes?" John asked, walking over to her. 

"Yeah, he took off. He does that," she responded. 

"Did it look like he was coming back?" he questioned. He wasn't yet comfortable going back to 221B on his own. It felt like invading someone else's flat. Which, he realized, he did on a regular basis. 

"No." She shook her head. "You aren't his friend, he doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"No one, really. I just met him," John answered quickly, not wanting too many questions about his identity. 

"Well, then take my advice. Stay away from that freak. One day, just showing up at a crime scene won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there," Sally warned. 

"Why would he do that?" John asked, doubtful. 

"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored," she said. 

"Thanks for the advice. See you around," he said in farewell before walking off to get a taxi. He had a job tonight. 

\---

John was crouched in the window of some apartment, staring through a pair of binoculars into the window of the building across. He could see his target, a woman called Louise Rinna. 

Once she was alone in the room, and in a decent position in accordance to the window, John discarded the binoculars and picked up his loaded handgun. He carefully took aim, and fired a single shot. 

He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and took off without waiting to see it the bullet hit. Of course it hit. Burning Flame didn't miss. 

Once he was a decent distance away from the scene, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. His phone went off in his pocket. He dug it out, and opened the text. 

221B BAKER STREET. COME AT ONCE IF CONVENIENT. SH

He slipped the phone back into his pocket. His flatmate could wait. He needed to collect a payment.

He walked for about five minutes when his phone went off again. He checked the text. 

IF INCONVENIENT, COME ANYWAYS. SH

Well, the man was persistent, John had to give him that. He kept walking and, hearing a siren, ducked into an alley. He watched as a hospital went racing by, lights flashing. His phone chimed again, and he pulled it out. 

COULD BE DANGEROUS. SH

John grinned. He fired off a text to his client, telling him to send the money to Harry. He hailed a cab. 

"221 Baker Street," he told the driver, "And step on it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this fic might be longer than I planned. I outlined five chapters, but it might be up to eight.  
> I always look forward to seeing your comments!


	3. Let Me In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigating happens and ooooooooohhhhhh other stuff too :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K I will probably post another chapter this week because I am super stoked for future happenings and stuff

Sherlock heard the front door slam shut, and heavy footsteps on the stairs. Interesting. It would seem that his new flatmate fancied danger.   
"Well?" John asked as he entered the room.   
"Well what?" Sherlock asked in return.   
"Well, you asked me to come. I'm here."  
"Yes, I can see that. I need you to send a text."  
John was silent a moment. "You brought me here to send a text."  
"Problem?"  
"I was on the other side of London! Did it even occur to you that I might be busy?"   
"It was no rush."  
"What's that?" John asked, gesturing to Sherlock's forearm.   
"Nicotine patches help me think. And yes, before you ask, that's three patches. It's a three patch problem."   
"Well, I'm here, so I may as well help you. Who am I texting."  
"Number on my desk. These words, exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Terrace. Please come."  
John was silent for a minute while he typed.   
"Have you sent it yet ?" Sherlock demanded.   
"Give me a minute!"  
Sherlock got up off the couch and retrieved the pink suitcase from where it leaned against the wall. He tossed it down on an armchair and popped it open.   
"That's- Jennifer Wilson's case. Where did you find it?" John asked.   
"I should probably mention at this point, I didn't kill her," Sherlock clarified sarcastically.   
"I never thought you did."  
That small statement weighted heavily for Sherlock. The man he had met only today was very quick to trust him, when those he has known for five years would still believe him to be a killer.  
"So, where'd you find the case?" John prompted, snapping Sherlock out of his daze.   
"Right. No one could be seen with this case, not without drawing attention to themselves. The color ensures that. The killer would not purposefully keep such a case. He probably drove her to Lauriston Gardens, and she must mistakenly have left her case in his car. It can't have taken long for the killer to realize he still had it, a few minutes at most."  
"Oh, of course. You checked any possible dump sites within five minutes of the crime scene," John realized.   
"Took less than an hour to find the right place."  
"So, why did I send that text?"   
"You tell me." Sherlock nodded at the case, and John rummaged through it. After a couple minutes, he stopped and smiled.   
"Of course. Her mobile."  
"Exactly," Sherlock agreed, "No phone in the case, no phone on the body. So, where is it?"  
"The murderer," John said, snapping his fingers, "She must have left it when she let her bag, and now the murderer has it."  
Just then, John's phone started ringing on the table. The call ID displayed a blocked number.   
"Coincidence?" John asked skeptically.   
"I don't believe in coincidence. If any random person found that phone and saw a text like that, they'd ignore it."  
"But the murderer, who'd just killed his latest victim a couple hours ago, he'd see a text that could only be from her. He'd panic."   
"Exactly." Sherlock slammed the case shut. He stood up, putting on his coat, "Coming?"  
"Where?" John asked, but stood up and followed Sherlock down the stairs.   
"Northumberland Terrace, of course."  
"You think he'd be stupid enough to go there?"  
"Oh, no. I think he'd be brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."  
"Makes sense," John said, nodding, "Everyone wants recognition. They want everyone to know just how talented and clever they are."  
Sherlock opened the door, and they stepped out into the crisp London night. It was a short walk from Baker Street to Northumberland Terrace; it didn't talk five minutes. Sherlock led John into Angelo's.   
***  
"Sherlock!" a man greeted as they entered the Italian restaurant, "Nice to see you again! Anything you want, free, for you and your date."  
"Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock and John sat in the booth by the window so they could watch the building across the street.   
"So, um, do you have a girlfriend?" John asked, trying to make conversation.   
"Girlfriend? Not really my area," Sherlock said vaguely.   
"Oh. Do you have a boyfriend?"  
"No."  
"So you're single, unattached. Just like me."  
"John, you should know, I consider myself married to my work, and while I am flattered by your interest-"  
"Bullshit," John snorted.  
"I assure you, it's not."  
"Yeah, right. You know how you can 'read' people? I'm not too bad at that myself. When I look at you, you know what I see? I see a man who claims to be a sociopath, who tries to distance himself from emotion because emotions have treated him badly in the past. I see someone who has never had a real relationship, but has had bad experience with others, has had quite a few bad relationships, so he is afraid. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of getting too close," John rattled off in the same rapid fire way Sherlock did, "Am I wrong?"  
"N-no. You're absolutely right. I don't know how you did it, but you are completely right."  
"Sherlock, I'm not sure what happened in the past, but I assure you, I would never do anything to hurt you. I could show you what a real relationship is, just let me in."  
Sherlock didn't respond, and John took it as an invitation. He slowly leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to the detective's lips. He broke away after only a few seconds.   
"That was... umm, good. I...umm, wouldn't be objected to doing that again," Sherlock said.   
"Sherlock," John said, looking out the window, "Cab stopped outside. I think it's our murderer."  
"And what makes you say that?" Sherlock asked.   
"He's just waiting there. His light's out, so he's not looking for a fare, and no one else has stopped there all night."  
"You're right," Sherlock acknowledged, then raised his voice, "Angelo! A glass of wine, quickly!"  
"I'm assuming you have some sort of plan you're not telling me about?"  
"Something like that," Sherlock confirmed vaguely. When Angelo came over and handed Sherlock the glass of wine, he splashed it all over himself. He stood up.   
"Make it look real," Sherlock instructed, and Angelo nodded. He then proceeded to grab Sherlock by the jacket and throw him out of the restaurant door.   
"No drunks in my restaurant!" the man shouted, then rejoined John at the table.   
"Watch him," Angelo instructed, "He is really good."  
"He is, very good indeed," John murmured, watching the detective stumble across the street. Pretending to be drunk to trick the cabbie, clever indeed.   
"He got me off a murder charge, you know. Cleared my name," Angelo casually remarked.   
"Wouldn't surprise me."  
"How long have you two known each other?" he asked.   
"Oh, about... twelve hours now?" John guessed, glancing at his watch   
"Twelve hours? And you're already together? Well, Sherlock had always been faster than the rest of us."  
"And I'm not sure if we're together, officially. Not yet, anyways."  
"Of course. Even with Sherlock, some things take time."  
"Something's gone wrong," John said abruptly, standing up. The cabbie was hauling Sherlock into the back of the cab. John had been doing this for long enough to recognize when a man was drugged, even from this distance.  
"No, no, he's fine. He's got a plan," assured Angelo.   
"Yes, and it's gone wrong. Phone the police," John ordered, then ran out the door. The cabbie had already started driving, and as fast of a runner John was, he wasn't as fast as a cab. He did see the direction in which the cab was headed, and could predict the destination: 221B Baker Street. Many killers preferred to do their work in the victim's home. John never had used that method; too much work involved. Personal preferences aside, odds are the killer is going to the flat. John ran up the street and headed for Baker Street.


	4. Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets cabbie, people find out things....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look! You get another chapter! Enjoy it, darlings!

\---

When Sherlock came to his senses, he was lying on the floor inside Baker Street. How- right. The cabbie ambushed him. How embarrassing.  
"Ah, Mr. Holmes. You're awake. You know, there's a lot of people who want you dead."  
Sherlock groaned. Not even ten seconds before the stupid threats start. "How unimaginative of you. Anyone could do better."  
"Yeah, you'd know, wouldn't you? Being a serial killer and all," the cabbie leered.  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock denied. How did the cabbie find out? Him and Mycroft were so careful.  
"I know all about you, Mr. Holmes. Or would you prefer Black Skull?"  
"If you know who I am, then you know that there are at least fifteen ways I could kill you from our current positions," Sherlock threatened, and the cabbie merely laughed.  
"You call that a risk? Nah. Here's a risk." The cabbie produced two vials from his pocket and placed them on the table. Curious, Sherlock sat down across from the man.  
"Two bottles. One harmless, one fatal," Sherlock deduced.  
"Bingo. You gotta admit, that's a risk worth taking."  
"I take one pill, you take the other. Obviously, you haven't lost yet. It's a simple setup, really. Both are poisoned, you have the antidote."  
"Nah. That'd be boring. Where's the risk in a guarantee? You see, Mr. Holmes, I'm dead anyways. Might as well have some fun on my way out. Of course, you'd know all about that."  
"Oh. Of course. You're dying. Diagnosed- three years ago? Any second now, you could drop dead, so you're on a kamikaze murder spree. Not exactly a rock solid motive," Sherlock criticized, "I can only imagine this is about your children, though I'm not sure how."  
"Oh, very clever. But what else would you expect from Sherlock Holmes? I might as well tell you. Won't live long enough to tell anyone. I got myself a sponsor. Every person I kill, money goes to my kids."  
"Who would sponsor a serial killer?"  
"Who would dare oppose Black Skull?"  
"Oh," Sherlock realized, feeling thick, "Him."  
"Burning Flame, your number one rival. Who else could it be?"  
"You've spoken to him. You know who he is. Tell me, now," Sherlock ordered.  
"Enough talking. Time to play the game."  
"As I said before, I could kill you right now. The only reason you're still alive is because you interest me. What makes you think I'll play your little game?"  
"Because, Mr. Holmes, you're always the addict. You crave the danger, the risk. You'll do anything to stop being bored."  
"Whether I play your game or not, the only way you're getting out of this room alive is if you tell me the identity of Burning Flame."  
"Well, we'll do it like this then," the cabbie suggested, grabbing a pen and a small notebook, "I'll write the name down in here. Then, together, we take our medicine. If you live, you get your information."  
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"  
"You don't. But I give you my word, if that helps." The cabbie scribbled something down, tore the page out, and stuffed the paper in his pocket, "Play the game."  
Sherlock picked up the two vials, examining the pills inside. Oh, excruciatingly simple for someone as knowledgable about drugs as him. He placed one vial back on the table, and unscrewed the cap on his.  
"Oh! Interesting choice!" remarked the cabbie, grabbing the vial and dumping the pill out onto his hand.  
"How do you want to do this?"  
"I'll count to three, and we'll take them at the same time."  
Sherlock upended the vial and took the pill in his hand, squinting at it in the light.  
"One."  
He was sure this was the right pill. No way some amateur could best him.  
"Two."  
The cabbie had been right. He did crave the danger, the risk. He'd do anything to stop being bored.  
"Three."  
Sherlock swallowed the pill quickly, and while the cabbie was distracted, hit him in the chest with the small knife concealed in his sleeve. The poison would have killed the man, but Sherlock was getting impatient. He reached his hand into the man's pocket, grabbing the piece of paper. "Thank you." He tucked it into his pocket.  
He heard the wail of sirens outside. He opened the window to make it look like the knife had been thrown from outside, and went out to meet the police. 

\---

John watched Sherlock and the cabbie from the window across the street. His handgun was loaded and ready, if Sherlock needed any assistance. Which, apparently he didn't, as he threw a knife into the cabbie's chest.  
Wait. One. Bloody. Second.  
He grabbed his binoculars and zoomed in on the handle protruding from the (dead) cabbie's chest.  
"Son of a bitch," he breathed. He'd recognize that insignia anywhere. It was a calling card, telling everyone exactly who the murderer was.  
And said murderer was his most despised enemy.  
John grabbed his gun, tucking it into the back of his trousers and discarding the binoculars, and ran in the opposite direction.  
Somehow, through some twisted coincidence, he was dating Black Skull.  
Fuck. 

\---

Sherlock waved Lestrade away as the DI tried or question him.  
"I'll give you a statement tomorrow. I have an appointment with a minor government official, and I just can't miss it," Sherlock apologized with fake sincerity.  
"Of course you do. Tell Mycroft to call me tomorrow, would you?" Greg requested.  
"If that will make you go away, then fine," Sherlock sighed. He hailed a cab, and headed for Mycroft's apartment. Upon arrival, he knocked four times, then six times on the door, a code they came up with for security reasons. Mycroft opened the door, and Sherlock pushed his way past his brother and into the flat.  
"I assume your unannounced visit has something to do with the identity of our rival, otherwise you would not be bothering me, brother dear," Mycroft deduced sarcastically, shutting and bolting the door.  
"The case I was working was more intricate than I had originally guessed. He was behind it. I got the name, but the paper was stained. I miscalculated the position of the paper in relation to the wound,and part of the name is obscured." Sherlock flattened the paper on the coffee table. Mycroft examined it.  
"John. Do you have any idea how many Johns there are in London alone?" Mycroft asked exasperatedly.  
"Which is why I need your help. I could figure out the rest if the name, but it would be a long and tedious procedure. I'm sure you have... people who could handle it."  
Mycroft sighed and folded the paper neatly, tucking it into his jacket. "I'll have your name by morning."  
"Then you won't mind if I stay here tonight. Not in the mood to return to Baker Street tonight, not with those idiots who dare call themselves police officers milling about. Oh, speaking of idiots, call Greg."  
"Thank you for relaying the message. And no, it's something more than that," Mycroft deduced suspiciously, "Something happened between you and your new flatmate. What was it- Jason? James?"  
"John," Sherlock corrected.  
"John? I highly doubt that is a coincidence."  
"Mycroft, that man is no more a serial killer than you are physically fit. He is merely intelligent, occasionally tolerable, and..." Sherlock's voice trailed of to a mumble.  
"What was that?"  
"A good kisser!" Sherlock shouted, "Don't pry, you whale! My relationships are my business!!" Sherlock stomped out of the room and locked himself in Mycroft's spare room. 

\---

Mycroft chuckled quietly in the other room. He hadn't seen Sherlock this emotional since he was a teenager. At the same time, this level of emotion was dangerous. He pulled out his mobile and dialled a number. The other person picked up within a matter of seconds.  
"Anthea, find out all you can about Doctor John Watson," Mycroft ordered before hanging up. Just to be safe. 

\---

John pounded on the door, trying to be heard over the loud music.  
"Coming!" someone yelled from inside. The door was wrenched open, and John found himself face to face with Harry.  
"John?! What the fuck are you doing here?!?!" she hissed, grabbing his arm and dragging him inside. She firmly shut the door behind them and secured all five locks.  
"I found him," John growled. He stalked into the living room and flopped down on an armchair, nodding at Clara, who was seated on the sofa.  
"What do you mean, you found him?" Harry demanded, following him and sitting down next to Clara.  
"Exactly as I said; I found him," John clarified.  
"Wait- you're talking about Black Skull? You finally found him?" Clara squealed excitedly.  
"Yeah, I did. And what did I tell you about confidentiality, Harry?" John asked exasperatedly.  
"Clara doesn't count. We've been together on and off for ten years," Harry insisted, "Anyways, who is he?"  
"Sherlock. Fucking. Holmes."  
"No," Harry breathed.  
"Yes."  
"But- I checked him. He's clean!" Harry exclaimed.  
"Yeah, and he's got a brother who's a government official. Not overly difficult to cover his tracks. And it gets worse."  
"What could be worse than that?" Clara asked.  
"I went and fucking kissed him!"  
"Holy-" Harry started.  
"Shit," Clara finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't I evil, giving you a cliffhanger? Mwahahaha :p


	5. Checkmate, Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this took a while? I forget when I posted the last one... Whatever. Sorry if it did take a while. Enjoy!

Sherlock awoke with a start. He scowled at the painting on the wall because it was ANNOYING and stomped out of the room. He grabbed a piece of paper that was lying on the counter. 

Sherlock  
Urgent business. Couldn't be avoided. Go home.   
MH

He crumpled the note and threw it in the general direction of the rubbish bin. Debating on whether to ignore Mycroft's instuctions or to do something productive, he paced for a few moments before pulling on his coat and leaving the apartment. On his way out the door, he almost ran into Mycroft's PA, that Anthea girl.   
"Mr Holmes asked me to tell you that your request hasn't been forgotten, it may just take a bit longer than anticipated," she told.   
"Ah, thank you, Anthea," Sherlock said offhandedly, and walked down the hallway towards the door.   
"Also, try not to kill anyone before Mycroft finishes work," she called after him, "It's hell on the traffic."  
Sherlock ignored the girl and stalked out of the apartment building and hailed a cab. A man less than him might be wary of cabs after the events of last night, but he was a serial killer. Things like that don't shake him. He jumped out of the cab at. Baker Street and went inside, taking the stairs two at a time.  
"John?" he called, walking into the living room, and froze. John was sitting in an armchair, pointing a gun at him.   
"Morning," the doctor said sarcastically.   
"John, what the hell are you doing?" Sherlock practically shouted. What could John have possibly found out- no. There was no way that he knew about-.  
"Oh? You're surprised, are you? You really are too obvious," scoffed John, "You know, I thought you were different, like me. But you're not. You're just ordinary. Just bloody ordinary and you made an ordinary mistake."  
"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked frantically, trying to pretend he didn't know what John was talking about.   
"Oh, an amateur mistake. You didn't think for a second that someone could be watching, did you? I saw you, with the knife last night, Sherlock. Or should I say, Black Skull?"

\---

John smirked at Sherlock's shocked expression. "I was in the window of the building across from here. I was about to shoot the cabbie, you know, save your life. But no, you went and stabbed him."  
"John, I- it's not what it seems, I promise you. I picked up the knife during an investigation and-"  
"Stop feeding me bullshit," John growled, suddenly angry, "I put my trust in you and you turn out to be my worst enemy, my greatest rival." He laughed, "Looking back, I should have seen it sooner. Nobody could be as clever as you are. Nobody could know as much about murder as you do, not unless they have committed murder."  
Sherlock was still for a few moments, then the other man began to laugh. At first, it was a quiet chuckle, which evolved into a loud, hysterical fit of laughter.   
"It seems that I have been discovered. I can't say that's happened before. And I was kissed by Burning Flame? Yesterday was eventful indeed!" Sherlock's tone grew serious, "I really did like John Watson, you know. I thought he was different, and while I was right about that, I never expected him to be a serial killer."  
"Yeah, well, I'm good at being unexpected," John said cockily.   
"The bad news is, now that you know my identity, I'm going to have to kill you."  
John smirked, "I'd like to see you try."  
At that moment, Sherlock's phone chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it, then tucked it back into his pocket.   
"Who was it?" John asked innocently.   
"Oh, just my brother," Sherlock dismissed airily.   
"Your brother... Mycroft, right? The man who covers for you? He's into brunettes, he likes cake, he claims to hold a minor government position but everyone with half a brain knows he is the British government? Lives at 451C Westrovia Court?"  
"How do you know that?" Sherlock demanded.   
"We've had both of you under surveillance, of course. And don't count on him coming to save you. My sister's girlfriend is... distracting him." John smirked, "It's just the two of us, dear."   
Sherlock was silent a moment, fiddling with his sleeve, and John chuckled. The man was soooooo predictable.   
"Ah ah ah, darling," John scolded, walking up to Sherlock and plucked the small knife from his sleeve, "After all I went through to ensure that we would be alone? I'm shocked!"   
"No, you're not," Sherlock denied.   
"No, of course I'm not. You're predictable. Yet, there's something about you that feels... different. I'd love to work with you sometime."  
"Go to hell," Sherlock spat.   
"Why so serious? Just ease up a bit! Live in the moment!" With that, John grasped Sherlock's jaw and tugged the man down into a heated, sloppy kiss, breaking away after only a few seconds, "Have a bit of fun while you can."  
"Thanks, but I'm not interested," Sherlock dismissed.   
"Oh. That's too bad. Really," John said sadly, "You realize I'm going to have to kill you now?"  
"That would be tremendously ambitious of you."   
"Still that same ego. I hate to say it, baby, but you aren't special. You're just ordinary, and I have to kill you like any other ordinary- hrrgghh!" John was cut off as he felt something being plunged deep into his chest.   
\---  
Sherlock twisted the small knife embedded in his rival with relish.   
"You disgust me," he snarled, then released the knife and shoved the already unconscious man onto the ground. He whipped out his mobile and called Mycroft.   
"You stupid whale, where are you?" he hissed angrily.   
"Sherlock, I'm in a meeting," Mycroft told, annoyed.   
"With who? An associate of Burning Flame?" Sherlock snapped.   
"No, of course not," Mycroft denied, "A business associate, Clara Wilkins."   
"Clara Wilkins, who happens to be dating John Watson's sister!" Sherlock shouted.   
"Oh. Oh, damn. Did something happen?"  
"Yes, you twat, something happened! I had a row with my greatest rival, who is now bleeding out on the living room floor!"   
"Damn, I missed a lot. I'll be right there. Don't leave," Mycroft ordered, then hung up. Sherlock flopped down on the couch and waited. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson had just left for her sister's earlier that day, so they weren't in any hurry.   
It didn't take long for Mycroft to arrive. When he did, he wrinkled his nose at the scent of blood that had already tainted the apartment.   
"Is there anything that could tie you to this crime?" Mycroft asked.   
"You mean, aside from the fact that I live here?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, "No."  
"Then it isn't a difficult coverup. Everyone knows about the rivalry between Black Skull and Burning Flame. Leave one of your vengeance poems, and blame it on that," Mycroft suggested.   
"As always, brother dear, I'm a step ahead of you," Sherlock said, nodding towards a piece of paper held up by one of his special knives hanging from the mantel. Mycroft read it aloud.   
"Black and red,  
Fire and bones,   
This man, lying dead  
Painted in deathly tones  
He is not to be mourned  
For death follows where he goes  
A soft face, yet adorned  
With brilliant crimes only he knows  
His legacy burned like a flame  
Now I bring him to shame

Black Skull"  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who shrugged it off.   
"It was short notice. Now, let's go," he ordered, winding his scarf around his neck and slipping on his coat. He gave one final glance to the body lying on the floor, then left the flat in a hurry. Burning Flame had been ended. Finally, he had peace.   
\---  
SEVERAL HOURS LATER  
John groaned and rolled onto his side. He coughed violently, and deep red blood splattered all over the pair of shining black shoes beside him. He looked up, and saw a familiar face: Sergeant Donovan from Scotland Yard.   
"And to think I warned you about the freak when you were a psychopath all along, Burning Flame," she spat, "Take him away."  
He was pulled to his feet and dragged outside to an ambulance. As he was loaded in by several police officers, he pieced the situation together.   
Sherlock stabbed him, and left him for dead. Someone must have called the cops. Sherlock must have left a poem or a letter revealing his identity. He was arrested.   
"I'll get you, Sherlock Holmes," he muttered under his breath, "If it's the last thing I ever do, I'll kill you. I don't care how long it takes, or how far I have to go. Watch your back, darling. I'm coming." He threw his head back and laughed hysterically, maniacally. He had somehow survived a stab wound to the chest, and he would put that luck to good use.   
He would end the monster known as Black Skull.   
"I'm coming, baby!" he shouted through his laughter, "Beware!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say thank you to all you guys out there! Whenever I see that I have kudos, or a new comment, or even just more hits, it really does make my day! This may be the end of the story, but fear not! The series is not over! I'm obviously going to write a sequel, and a prequel is being planned too, yay! Let me know in the comments what you want to see in those, and I'll see what I can do! ILYSM! Bye for now!

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think! I think I got all of the mistakes, but please tell me if I missed something. Thanks!


End file.
